


reaching as I sink down in to light (it's a shame we all became such fragile broken things)

by ofstardustandthimbles



Series: strange birds [2]
Category: Once Upon a Time (TV), Peter Pan & Related Fandoms
Genre: F/M, Gen, rufio/tigerlily
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-17
Updated: 2014-09-17
Packaged: 2018-02-17 17:10:57
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,958
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2317034
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ofstardustandthimbles/pseuds/ofstardustandthimbles
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Never Neverland is a place for escapism and imagination.  Peter Pan reigns over a place he calls home, but it soon regrettably and inevitably, falls apart in his own hands.</p>
            </blockquote>





	reaching as I sink down in to light (it's a shame we all became such fragile broken things)

**Author's Note:**

> For April.
> 
> Disclaimer: I do not own Peter Pan, Once Upon A Time, or Tiger Lily. Title credit to Paramore. All rights go to their respective owners.

_“The girl has a question for the boy. ‘How much do you love me?’_

_He thinks for a moment, then quietly replies, ‘As much as a train whistle in the night.’_ ” – Haruki Murakami

 

 

 

 ***

 

 

            The man runs towards the sound of the music.

            Panic and fear settles in his chest as he weaves his way towards the fire. He cannot find him. Amongst the sea of boys, he cannot find his son. He stops and tugs at every boy he finds, but every boy he reaches is not him. Their faces are masked with feathers and paint, but they are not his son. He does not see the familiar curls of his hair or the twinkle in his eyes. The man does not give up and continues calling out his name, begging for him to come back home where he will be safe. His son does not answer.

            A fire flickers in the center of the woods. He feels the hammering of the drums in his heart as he swiftly approaches the ring of boys around the fire, crowing in to the night with feathered masks. Some boys dance around the fire – the dance is so wild, so savage-like, it is as if the boys are summoning the devil. He bites his tongue and avoids the jumps and kicks the boys perform around the fire, his eyes permanently scanning the sea of anonymous souls for the boy who shares his blood.

            (He does not feel his heart beating in his ribs, but the dirty hands of the boys pounding on the drums. It is as if they strike his chest with a club each second, taunting him about his lost son.)

            The man watches them carefully. Each boy he grabs, their eyes are fogged and glassy with an invisible mist. It is like they are hypnotized and controlled by some force that the naked eye cannot see. He pulls away; as if afraid that he will be lured by the same spell they are trapped under. Their mind is clouded with something poisonous that cannot be seen. Something invisible fogs their brains and kills them on the inside, for these boys, they cannot be human. These boys are savages and are wild beasts that refused to be tamed.

            (He sees the red paint near the mouth of some of their masks. A shiver runs down his spine, for the red paint can be mistaken for blood. They were no ordinary boys, but demons possessed by an evil spirit.) 

            The sound of a flute stops him.

            His feet are cemented to the ground, as if the roots of the trees have grown and gripped his ankles so tight, he cannot move. His heart beats fast in his ribs, he is afraid that his black heart will spill black ink on to the earth. The flute surpasses the roar of blood in his ears, and he is afraid. He is terribly afraid, and this man is never afraid of anything. This fear is completely foreign to him.

            (This man held no fears, but there is something here that makes his skin crawl. Deep in his bones, they shake and tremble. He does not know why.)

            A figure stands across the fire, dressed in elaborate red and gold robes. His face cannot be seen, for a shadow conceals his appearance caused by the hood that rests on top of his head. He sways to the music, a pan pipe pressed to his lips as he gently blows in to it. The more he plays, the more the boys dance and crow barbarically, in any instant they can turn and rip each other apart if the piper so desired for them to do. The music fogs their brains and their senses, and all common sense and logic is lost as the piper lures them away from their dream land in to this horrid nightmare.

            Something inside of his brain fogs. For a brief moment, he cannot see or think straight. His mind is focused on the sound of the alluring music. His body twitches to dance and howl in to the night like an untamed wolf, but he refuses. The magic inside his veins pulses within him, like a knife digging inside his bones, reminding him of his original purpose.

            The man wills himself to move and breaks his spell.

            (There is a tug in his heart, as if there was a ghost squeezing the muscle so tight.)

            He saunters over towards the piper, his beady eyes narrowed in anger. The piper does not sense the man. If he does, he does not show it. He places his hand on his shoulder and turns him around, harshly removing the pipe from his hands and snapping it in two. The piper turns slightly, but his face is not yet seen.

_“Where’s my son, piper?”_

_“Is that what they’re calling me?”_ The piper asks with a smug tone in his voice. There is a faint chuckle if one strains to hear his breathy laugh. _“We both know who I really am.”_

            The piper’s bony fingers crawl towards his hood and harshly pull it down. A mop of golden brown hair sits messily on top of his head, his skin as white as the glow of the moon. There is a flicker of gold in his forest green irises, but they are clouded with something dark. A knife-like grin settles on his lips, his teeth as sharp as daggers, his throat pale and covered with scars and cuts from long, long ago.

            There is no mistake in his skeletal frame. Tall and thin, he is a walking skeleton; he is nearly elfish. His ears slightly angle from the sides of his head. He smells of the pine of a jungle, musky with a twinge of sweat, but his smile does not reach his eyes. Behind his teeth, his mouth drips of blood. Deep beneath his skin are the hearts he devoured whole.

            The piper laughs. It sounds like two swords clashing against one another. _“It’s been a long time, laddie. Glad you could make the show.”_

            The man freezes.

            (He faintly remembers a little boy with his father’s eyes. The boy once sat in bed with a little straw doll in his hands that he once gave him. At night, he would sit beside him and tell him stories about a place that he once visited in his dreams. His blood boiled when he gazed up at him in awe, for those pupils resembled the man who left him in the middle of the road in the darkest of nights. But the boy’s face remains a blurry image.)

            The boy has a smile that does not reach his eyes. _“You look surprised to see me, Rumple. I don’t blame you, I’m a little surprised myself.”_

            (The village noticed the disappearance of the abandoned man’s bastard son. Some believed that the devil finally claimed the demon that crawled out of Hell. )

            Identical hunter green irises eye the man up and down, as if observing a specimen under a light _. “Look who has grown up and become the Dark One. Good for you.”_

            The Dark One struggles to find his voice. Once he speaks his voice cracks and wavers in the presence of the dreaded piper _._ The whole village knew that once the boys were gone, there was no hope for them to return. He fears he would never find his son, but the more he looks in to those ghostly orbs, he is entranced.

_“What are you doing here?”_

            _“It’s lonely in Neverland. The only friends I have are the children who visit in their dreams,”_ the boy answers. He eyes him with disdain, a frown on his cracked lips. _“But they can’t stay. The boys I take back with me will.”_

              _“You’re here for my son.”_

            Something strange happens. The elfish piper’s haunting eyes grow wide with amusement and bitterness. He throws his head back, revealing a long scar along his ivory throat in the moonlight. He laughs, a laugh so dark and twisted, it sends chills down the Dark One’s brittle bones. It is like the sound of the cries of metal against metal, piercing in to the night. He resembles a wolf howling at the moon and sees the faint outline of a pair of black crooked wings breaking through the skin of his back.

            His eyes narrow at the man before him, filled with disgust and a burning rage.  

            _“Of course, your_ son, _”_ he jeers at him with a mocking tone. His teeth grind together behind his lips, and his jaw grows sore at the constant grinding. Some of his teeth have turned in to fangs from this habit.

            (Some fangs are forever stained with blood of the hearts he consumed.)

             The Dark One remains silent, unable to move. Behind his fear is a life’s worth of memories. He recalls a boy who once came home every day with blood dripping from his cheek or a bone broken and bent at an odd angle. He would tend his wounds and feign concern and worry over this boy who looked just like the man who left him abandoned in the middle of the road. Black ink spreads within his veins and clutch at his dark heart, but nails and claws pierce at the beating muscle, tearing it apart.

            He warily eyes the boy once more. His face held faint scars in the fire light. He swallows hard as he locks his gaze with the demon boy standing before him. He has seen those forest irises before. They remind him of the past, a past that he longed to forget. Suddenly, it is as if air was taken from him. He could not breathe, and his heart struggles to beat. The fear that piled in his brain begins to drown his veins. It is as if he is drowning in his own blood that is ice cold.

            He sees the boy who cursed him.

            Another vicious smirk widens on the demon’s lips. _“Most parents worst fears is that their child will be taken away from them. But it’s not yours, is it, Rumple?”_

With a flick of his wrist, the Dark One loses his voice.

 _“You’re not afraid that he will be taken from you. No, you’re afraid that_ Baelfire _will leave you!”_ He spits the boy’s name out in venom, as if it was a poison to him. His eyes narrow and nearly turn red in the seething anger that blurs his vision. He yearns to rip the man’s throat with his dagger and spill his blood in to the fire, but he refuses.

            (This was nothing compared to what he’s been through. _He_ was never ridiculed for being a bastard. _He_ never had the children place their animals waste in his drinks. _He_ never had stones thrown at his face. _He_ never had men crack his skull with a simple push against the wall.)

            The boy squeezes his hand in to a fist, and the Dark One begins to choke. The man’s eyes grow wide and his cheeks turn in to an awkward shade of purple, unlike the green toad like skin that glitters his body. He falls on to his knees at the boy’s feet, reaching for his throat and croaking for air. He laughs at the sight; to see a man so helpless – the infamous Dark One – unable to breathe, it is a sight for him to see.

            He kicks the man in the ribs.

            _“Oh Rumple, Rumple. And here you thought you’ve seen the last of me.”_ He squats beside him now, fisting a handful of his wavy hair. Satisfaction courses through his veins, and power hungrily consumes his dark mind and heart. The boy spits in the man’s face and pushes him aside so that his head is inches from the fire.

            The piper with the venomous fangs stands and pieces his pipe with a snap of his fingers. _“Good luck trying to get your son back, Rumplestilskin.”_ He kicks some dirt in his face. _“Or should I say, papa?”_

            He disappears in to the night, and a black feather is left where his footprints once were.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

           

Two hags found the boy in the middle of the road drowning in mud.

            His father was nowhere to be in sight, but everyone knew who he was. The Sir Malcolm was an infamous man, a man who had alcohol and liquor coursing through his veins rather than the red thickness of blood. His heart centered on hysteria and dementia that clouded his brain and etched its claws in to his skull. He was known in the town as a man who could barely walk straight without muttering curses and damning everyone to hell. He gambled his fortunes and was left with nothing, other than a little boy who reminded him of his wasted youth.

            The boy fell asleep with his head’s on his father’s shoulder. He does not remember anyone carrying him out of the street. He only remembered falling in to the wet mud.

            Tears streamed down his face. He howled in to the night like a wounded wolf, calling for his father. His father never answered. Some villagers stirred in their beds at the sound, but made no move to look out their window to see the abandoned child in the middle of the road. There was a small shop at the end of the road, and two elderly women heard. The eldest one stepped out in to the night and found him with a wounded leg in the mud.

            She rushed over to him and gagged at the stench. His brown eyes resembled the mirth of his father, but this boy was innocent. He was not his father.

            (She found a small piece of glass in his leg.)

            Her sister came over and helped her carry the boy in to their shop. He sat on the table and cried, choking on his own breath and screaming in pain as one of the sisters tended his injury. The other held the boy tight, despite the mud that stained her night gown. His screams of pain and agony echoed in to the night.

 _“What’s your name, my boy?”_ asked the sister who bandaged his leg.

 _“Rumplestilskin,”_ he whimpered. _“My father abandoned me.”_

 

 

 ***

            Rumplestilskin was taken under their wing. He did not know where he was, for the village he lived in was far different than the one he originally came from. They cared for him as if they were his own son. Eventually, the story was spread within the entire kingdom that the Sir Malcolm purposely disposed of his son in an unknown town to never be seen again.

            The Sir Malcolm grew up in a gang. As a wild youth, the villagers cowered in his presence when he walked by. Some of the villagers say that he was the devil in disguise, feeding on the fears of the innocent young. His father was a thief and his grandfather was a drug addict, and it was foolishly and nearly inevitable that the Sir Malcolm would follow the same path.

            He was just a man when he fell for a bar wench in a tavern. They both could not see straight, for the rum had gone to their heads. He remembered pulling her close, and the next, he awakens with her bare body beside him. He left in the morning, never to see her again, but he could not. He was drawn to her.

            (It was a year later he found a little boy who looked just like her. Some of the villagers said that he was like a tree, and that his roots tangled around her heart and choked her as she bore him. The Sir Malcolm allowed the hallucinations of beer to consume him to forget about that night that he so regretted. Guilt tore at his insides and clawed at the cage of his ribs. The child was just like _her.)_

            The village knew who he was. They knew everything about Rumplestilskin, from his father to his great-grandfather. Some whispered in each other’s ears behind their dirty hands that he was cursed for being a gang leader’s son. Once, a man from the castle grabbed a girl by the arm and pried her away from the arms of her family to right in the Ogre Wars. Rumplestilskin, a young adult at the time, stood between the man in the dark armor and the crying girl, telling him to leave. The man laughed, for he was the Sir Malcolm’s son. He slid off his horse with ease and landed on his two feet. He extended his leg with his arms crossed in front of his chest, ordering him to kiss his boot before kicking his throat.

            (It was only days later the villagers found his body in the middle of the woods. The man was assumed to be dead for days, for the flies and carrion birds already picked at his rotting flesh. His teeth were gone; his tongue was cut off and replaced with the dirt from the soil.)

            Rumplestilskin fell for a blacksmith’s daughter, a young woman with long black curls and the brightest blue eyes. To him, she was the sun and the only woman who did not turn away from him. She did not pity him like the others, but only told him to _fight_. She taught him how to live, and he followed her. He would follow her anywhere and just keep following her, for he could not get enough of the light. For once in his life, there was someone who did not look at him with eyes of pity or disgust. He was drawn to the fire in her blue eyes and burned in them.

            The village shook their heads at the two, for her path would lead to destruction.

            They were young reckless lovers, but they both made a grave mistake. They had a little too much to drink and had a little too much time on their hands. They were a little too close to each other, and they fell in each other’s arms and consummated their love by the fire of her own home. He had kissed her passionately and poured his soul in to her. She smiled and did just the same. Together, a little babe began to grow in her belly. She was nineteen and he twenty one.

            Her father had cursed them, for she had been bewitched by the town’s bastard. The blacksmith girl cried out in pain when her father had his grip so tight on her arm, bruises were left on her skin for weeks. Her long black hair flew around her like a raven flying in to the night, and soon she fell in to the streets with her father angrily pointing the tip of his sword at her lover’s throat. Her mother stood beside her father with tears streaming down her face as her husband screamed and damned his daughter and her lover to the flames of Hell. The two had fled the village and did not look back.

            A year later, she gave life to a boy.

            (He had loved the boy, he truly did. But the moment the boy opened his eyes and revealed his forest green irises, something inside of him broke. He was taken back to the day where his father had tossed him in to the mud on an abandoned road without a word. His hair was just like his, golden brown and messy. His brown eyes eyed the child with immense apathy, for he reminded him too much of his cowardly father. The Sir Malcolm breathed life in to this child.

            The blacksmith’s daughter began to grow dark. Her blood boiled in rage whenever she looked at the boy, for he was the reason that her father had thrown her in to the street with such anger and fury. She was only twenty years old and was not ready to be a mother. She was still young. The child stripped that away from her. Her blue eyes would land on him and she frowned. He was another reminder of a mistake she made, and because of that, her family was gone. This boy destroyed her life.

            Rumplestilskin took away her innocence. It was for her belief they put up with the larvae.)

            _“What shall we name him, Rumple?”_ She inquired softly as he set the baby down in his crib by the fire.

            _“Malcolm,”_ Rumplestilskin whispered, _“to remind ourselves of our mistake.”_

            They never looked at Malcolm the same way again.

 

 

* * *

 

 

            The jungle hummed with life at the arrival of the young boy.

            He lay on the shores of the island with the ocean kissing his feet and the sun shining above him. He slowly lifted his head and squinted at the bright light that penetrated through his closed eyelids. A hand was placed over his eyes, casting a shadow on his face to shield his skin from the scorching sun. The sun was low and twice as big as the sun he remembered seeing as a boy in the village. Sweat glistened on the back of his neck and trickled down his neck, his throat dry and aching for water.

            The boy shakily stood with trembling legs. He wrapped an arm around himself and looked all around him. There was not a cloud in sight, and there were no footsteps on the sand except his own. There was a cry in the heart of the jungle, followed by the sound of the running feet of the Never beasts. Black crows flew above his head and disappeared behind the mountains that towered above the island. The brunette stepped forward and disappeared in to the thicket of the jungle.  

            The island buzzed with life. Small bursts of bright green grass shot up from the earth beneath his padded boots. When his hand reached out to push away a leaf or a branch, a vine blossomed and wrapped itself around the trees. The branches extended their arms towards the boy, aching to touch his hot skin and soak up the sweat that ran down his neck. The roots of the plants and trees shifted below the ground, and the earth trembled with each step he took. He could practically feel the hum of the island rushing through his veins, as if it were whispering to the organs inside his body. It is almost as if a part of the island itself planted a seed inside of his heart and yearned to stretch its roots in to his ribs and grow.

            He did not know where he was going, or what he was looking for. The damp branches soon parted to create a path for him to follow, but to where? That, he did not know. There was a slight wind that resembled a summer breeze, whispering in to the trees and plants. Small bugs and other insects flew away from the boy that walked through the jungle. His forest green irises were lidded and threatened to slip shut. The heat only grew as he ventured deeper in to the thick jungle. His thirst was unbearable, and his body was not strong enough to keep going.

            A vine tangled around his arm gently. The boy jumped and panicked, struggling to pry his arm away from the green vine that held him in place. His forest eyes were filled with fear as he tugged and tugged until the vine ripped. He fell to the ground on his side and let out a small cry of pain. Terrified, the boy shakily stood on his trembling legs and ran.  

            He ran towards the edge of a cliff. He immediately halted his steps and fell on to his back at the sudden stop. He panted heavily as he struggled to catch his breath, unable to stand due to dehydration and starvation. A whimper escaped his lips as he struggled to push himself off the earth with the palm of his hands digging firmly in to the soil.

            His eyes landed on a fountain that peeked behind a curtain of vines. With all the strength he had left, he stood and ran. His throat swelled at the sight of the rushing waters between the rocks. He collapsed on his knees and wept as he gathered the water in to his hands and drank greedily. The water trickled down the back of his throat and soon filled his body with the sweet nectar. A small smile etched its way on his lips as he leaned forward and allowed the cool waters to cleanse his dirty hands and face.

            There was the sound of a faint laugh. Startled, the boy looked around, only to hear the wind blowing through the cave and the waters dancing between the rocks. His eyebrows furrowed as he stood, searching for the sound. The wind blew again, and it sounded like a young girl laughing. It was not a laugh of taunting mockery, but a gentle one, like a tinkle of bells.

            _“Hello?”_ His voice bounced off the walls. There was no answer, but he heard the bells ring once more.

            Suddenly, a burst of bright golden light flew in front of his eyes. He stepped back and cried out in surprise as he fell in to the cool water. He swam to the surface and laughed; it felt wonderful for his skin to be kissed by the cold water. Suddenly, there was life rushing inside of him. For once, he felt alive.

            His eyes landed upon the little star that resided on a rock, watching him. He offered a small smile as the ball of light slid down the rock and towards his open palm.

            It was a faerie, her skin glowing with light and her hair as bright as the sun.

            _“Hello there,”_ he whispered. _“What’s your name?”_

            The faerie opened her mouth to speak, but no words came out. Instead, she looked down at her feet and traced the lines of his palm with her eyes.

            He frowned _. “You don’t have a name?”_

            The little star shook her head.

            He pondered for a moment. _“How about I call you Tinker Bell?”_

            Tinker Bell looked up at the boy with wonder and awe and nodded her head. She smiled and spoke once more with her hands, filling his ears with the delightful ring of the soft jingle of bells. The brunette laughed and gently set her on a rock.

            (He did not feel Neverland smile or the stars shed their light on him.)

 

* * *

 

           

 

There once was a boy named Malcolm. He was the unwanted child of a gang leader’s son and a blacksmith’s daughter, named after the drunkard that terrorized the kingdom. He ran away to Neverland and became the king of the island. Malcolm passed away. He became Peter Pan.

            Peter Pan had been king of Never Neverland for a very, very long time. Unlike most children, he never forgot about his life before coming to Neverland. The island was alive and gave life to the animals and beasts that lurked in the jungle. It was the island that sheltered the boy with green eyes and golden brown hair with love and affection.  

            It was night. Peter Pan crouched by the lagoon and with the light of the stars reflected on the still waters. Beneath the surface, the faint glimmer of the mermaids twinkled in the glow of the waxy moon, whispering and giggling behind their webbed hands. Peter smirked; it looked as if the mermaids had caught the moon in their hands and wrapped their tail around it, drowning it down below in to the unknown murky waters. He rested his arm on a knee and leaned forward.

            One of the mermaids swam elegantly to the rock, her arms long and graceful with her fluid movements. Only her head and neck were seen, her beady black eyes trained on the boy king that sat on his knees five feet away from him. A smile stretched on her lips and revealed a sharp set of razor-like teeth stained with the blood of the hearts she devoured.

            Peter was not afraid as she swiftly swam towards him. He did not blink when her ice cold hand wrapped around his ankle, slowly dragging his skeletal body in to the water. A lopsided grin settled on his lips as his foot hit the water; he still did not show any signs of fear. There was no need to; he was the boy king of Neverland, after all. Kings were never afraid of anything.

            Her gaze fell upon the pipe that sat beside him. Black orbs glimmered in curiosity at the sight; it was an odd pipe. It looked as if it were constructed of several small sticks of bamboo tied together with a dried stem of a flower, each piece longer than the other. The mermaid tilted her head towards the side, captivated by the object. Mermaids do not know much of the human world, especially the possessions that they owned.

            His hands reached for his pipe. _“Do you want me to play it?”_

            The mermaid nodded her head and released her hold on his booted ankle. She placed her forearms at the edge of the rocks, her chin resting on her slimy scales. The brunette drew his knees close to his thin body and gently blew in to the pipe, composing the soft melody of the flute.

            It was hauntingly beautiful. The song started soft and low, like the sound of the breeze whispering in the leaves of the jungle. The note was drawn out and gradually grew higher and bolder, much like the song of a bird. They merge together; a gentle breeze and a bird’s song in the jungle. The bird cooed as it extended its wings and flew in to the rays of the sun, casting its shadow on the island below. The mermaid was entranced by the song; there was no words, only the sounds of the pipe luring her in to the heart of the pied piper.

            A raven as black as night crowed behind him.

            The mermaid screeched and bared its teeth at the raven before flicking its tail out of the water.

            Peter dropped his pipe and turned. The raven was perched on a rock behind him, its eyes staring straight in to his own. The raven turned on its side and crowed once more before it stretched its bony wings. Two dark feathers fall from its bones as it took off in to the night to merge with the inky sky. Peter tilted his head to the sky; the stars were hidden from sight, for a flock of crows concealed their light.

            There was a rustle in the leaves.

            His blood coarsed wildly as he stood. The low hanging leaf bobbed up and down, and a shadow retreated in to the thicket of the jungle. Peter picked up his pipe and noted the footprints that were sketched in to the soil. They were no prints of a beast or animal, but of a human. There was someone else on this island.

            Peter ran in to the jungle, his hand over his dagger in case of an attack. He whipped his head and turned, listening to the sounds of the beasts and crows as he stood hidden in the shadows of the trees. His blood hummed, for Neverland ran through his veins, whispering to him. He closed his eyes and leaned against the trunk of a tree. Neverland spoke softly in his ear, telling him of the soul that lurked the island.

            (His heart hammered wildly in his rib cage. He was not afraid. He repeated this mantra in his head to calm the unsteady beating of his fearful heart.)

            He unsheathed his dagger and ran deeper in to the thicket. The ravens squawked and screeched loudly in to the night, drowning out the soft voice of Neverland guiding him towards the soul that watched him. His foot prints disappeared in to the soil, for the shadows of the birds had fallen on his path. Pitch black feathers fluttered from the sky and carved a path for him to follow on the soil.

            In the distance, he saw a tangle of black waves slipping in to the shadows.

            His legs jerked forward as he ran faster and faster, willing his body to move. His blood roared in his ears, his muscles aching as his legs collided with low hanging branches and the leafy stretches of the bushes that sat on the edge of the dirt path. Sweat beaded his neck and his hands grew clammy with nervousness, his green irises searching for the one that lurked in the shadows. His lungs ached and he drew in deep sighs that felt like a knife cutting open his chest, whispering in to the jungle of the island.

            The black waves was not too far now. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the waves float up a tree.

            His dirt-stained hand tightly grasped their ankle before they could pull themselves up on to a branch.

            The two of them landed on the damp earth with a loud grunt. Peter gasped for air as his back collided with the ground, the weight of the watcher crushing his abdomen beneath their bones. He saw the shadow move before his eyes and vaguely felt the pain that blossomed vibrantly in his wrist, stretching from his veins to the sharpest bone in his body. Peter arched his back and groaned at the weight that pinned his swollen wrist to the soil. A flash of silver glistened in the dark, and his dagger was seen five feet away.

            A feather lands on his cheek. Peter kicked his legs and thrashed, but he was held down tightly by the watcher hovering above him. A startled cry escaped his chapped lips the moment something cold is pressed against his throat, his neck arched. His green eyes struggle to decipher the shadow that held him captive; he found a pair of amber brown eyes.

            The moment they meet, they released their grip and nearly vanish in to the night.

            He was as quick as a snake; his hand slithered and caught their arm before they disappeared in to the shadows of the jungle. They cried out in shock. Taken by surprise, Peter pulled them to the ground and twisted his body, capturing their frame beneath his skeletal bones. He froze.

            A girl.

            Her brown eyes were paralyzed with anxiety and wide with fear. Black hair framed her sun-kissed skin, her cheeks lined with bright red paint as bright as a blooming rose, and a pair of ebony black feathers rested beside her fiery amber irises. Her lips were dried and crack, parted open with surprise, a word frozen on her lips that struggled to escape. Dark wisps of her tangled hair framed her face perfectly, and in the moonlight, he could tell that she was beautiful with the contrast of her olive skin and her hair as dark as night.

            _“You’re…you’re a girl,”_ Peter whispered, stunned and breathless.

            The girl closed her lips and swallowed hard, her hands squirming beneath his hands that tied them to the soil. The brunette slowly loosened his grip.

            She leaned forward and her skull collided with his. Then his vision went black.

 

 

***

 

He woke up to the sound of birds chirping above him.

            Peter squinted his eyes the moment they cracked open. He felt weightless, for his back was not on the wooden boards of his tree house, nor was his body covered by the thick blankets he wrapped himself in on the coldest nights. There was the taste of the hot season in the air that was thick with heat and sweat, but the island hummed in his veins at the awakening of the boy king. Through the cracks of the evergreen trees that loomed above his head, rays of sunlight penetrated through, creating straight lines of light in to the shadowy jungle.

            There was a subsiding ache in his head. His throat was dry and parched with an insatiable thirst, his body sore. With a heaved moan as his muscles screamed in pain, the boy sat up in his hammock that was tied below the branch of a tree in the shade. Green orbs flickered around him and landed on the girl with the crowed feathers sitting on a boulder five feet away.

            He had never seen anyone like her before. He could see her features now in the sunlight; her hair was tied in a braid that cascaded down her back like a waterfall. A pair of raven feathers were perched above the shell of her ear, pieced together by a gold clip and a ribbon as blue as the sky knotted at the crown of her head. Her legs were covered with several bruises, scrapes, and cuts, her boots knotted clumsily with a leather chord. A bony shoulder was bare from a rip in her dress, and he saw in the sun a faint outline of dried blood.

            The girl caught his gaze on her. Her legs appeared miles longer as they untangled when she stood, a hand enclosed around a hatchet that hung at her hip.

            _“No, wait!”_ Peter quickly crawled out of the hammock and landed on his two feet, a hand outstretched towards her. _“Don’t go.”_

            Her piercing brown eyes watched him closely, like a hunter eyeing its prey.

            His green orbs fell on a large cut at her side caked with dried blood. “ _Your arm; you’re hurt. Let me help.”_

            She eyed him warily, and reluctantly took a step forward towards him. Peter smiled lightly. _“I’m Peter Pan. What’s your name?”_

            The girl pointed to a flower behind him. Peter turned; at the foot of the tree was a blossoming tiger lily.

            _“Is it Tiger Lily?”_

            She nodded.

            _“Tiger Lily.”_ He repeated, her name rolling off his tongue. _“I like it.”_

            Tiger Lily smiled.

 

 

Tiger Lily was a girl who spoke very little words. A guarded look hung in her brown eyes and her lips were settled in to what seemed to be a permanent scowl, but every so often, the corners would lift in to a small smile. Her body was covered in scars for running through the forest for as long as she could remember. The wound that Peter Pan found on her arm was different.

            Peter watched her carefully when he wrapped the injury with a cloth beside one of the freshwater streams moments later. Her bones were rigid and tense whenever his fingers ghosted over her skin radiating with heat. They were nowhere near Mermaid’s Lagoon, but in the distance, Peter heard the mermaids screech and hiss at the ravens that now crowded the island. Neverland hummed once more in his blood; he felt the island shift beneath him, as if welcoming the girl with open arms.

            He tied the knot together. _“H-how did you get this wound?”_ He asked curiously.

            She cocked her head towards the direction of the Lagoon miles away from their spot.

_“The mermaids tried to drown you?”_

            She nodded.

            He stared at her, dumbfounded. _“You weren’t killed by the mermaids?”_

            A frown settled on her lips and her eyebrows furrowed. Peter chuckled quietly.

            _“Can you speak?”_

            A nod of her head.

            He frowned; then why did she answer him mutely?

            As if she read his mind, she opened her mouth and spoke. _“English is…hard.”_

            Her voice held a slight accent and he could tell that she was more familiar with the language of her own tribe (wherever she came from. That was a question for another day, Peter decided.).

            _“How did you come here?”_

            Tiger Lily pointed to the ravens flying overhead and waved her fingers in to a running position in her palm.

            _“You followed them here?”_

            _Yes._

            The boy king stood and extended his hand. _“Let me show you around the island. Neverland is your home now.”_

            He noticed the twinkle in her brown eyes and grinned.

 

***

 

            Peter learned a lot about Tiger Lily through her limited choice of words. Even though she rarely spoke, she understood English perfectly and responded through the gestures of her hands and arms, much like the little pixie that followed them around on his shoulder. The raven haired girl reminded him much of Tinker Bell; they both spoke with their body and with their eyes, although Tink would always produced the melodic tinkle of bells whenever she did speak. When Tiger Lily first met the faerie, she was mesmerized to see such a fragile little creature that was not much different than her, but she mistook her for a dragon fly at first. Tink merely shrugged and stuck her tongue out at the Indian princess. Tink took a liking to the native warrior and comfortably settled herself in the waves of her hair (much to Peter’s dismay.)

            She once was the daughter of an Indian chief back in the forest. Peter found a book of empty paper that waded on to the shore, and almost instantly, Tiger Lily began to scribble vivid and detailed images of her life before she found her way to Neverland. The crowed feathered girl was only five years old when her tribe was slaughtered by pirates that invaded their home in the forest in search for jewels and gold her tribe did not possess. She and her father fled as her tribe was massacred by the use of firearms and other weapons that remained foreign to them, but as they were about to swim across a nearly frozen river, her father was killed. She ran in to the forbidden boundaries of the forest where the pirates had captured her tribe.

            (She remembered the men and women urging the children to run and never look back. She never found the children of the village the night after she crossed the river in to an unknown forest.)

            Her hands trembled slightly as she quickly sketched the shape of a raven. She drew several and a small silhouette of a girl staring up at the sky. She was raised by the ravens and followed them everywhere she went, and eventually, the ravens led her to this island. She faintly remembered how she entered Neverland, but one moment she jumped off a bridge and found herself tangled in a web of mermaids; she barely escaped.

            She drew a sketch of her running through the forest with him at her heels. Through her drawings, Peter realized that she had tried to approach him a few times whenever he believed he felt eyes on him when he went to the river for water. Tiger Lily did not know how to confront him, so she remained silent. However, the ravens flocked the island and the mermaids were afraid of her when she nearly killed one of their sisters in self defense.

            Peter watched her back as the two of them slept in the tree house that he created long before she set foot on to the island. He forgot how much time passed since he left the Enchanted Forest, and he swore that he would not think about that place again.

            (His parents did not want him. His eyes grew dark and his chest tightened at the sickening thought of seeing that little boy – his brother – replacing him in his bed. He had to remind himself that they did not love them, and that he did not love them. His heart splintered at the thought that his brother was nurtured and loved by the people who hated him most.

            _Forget them, Peter. Forget them all_.)

            At night, they would sleep on the wooden floor of the tree house as they stared in to the night sky. The stars twinkled brightly, and every so often, Tiger Lily would trace the stars with the tips of her fingers, drawing a constellation for him to see. When the moon rose and the night wind blew, they turned their backs and slept beside each other beneath the thin blanket. Sometimes, he felt her toss and turn relentlessly but remained quiet whenever she hummed quietly to herself. She was not the one to sleep, and often times, he fell asleep before she did and she would be hunting by the time that he woke.

            Over the years, Peter taught Tiger Lily how to speak English. She understood the language well, but she fumbled with her words when they slipped off her tongue. As the days rolled in to weeks, the weeks rolled in to months, and the months rolled in to years, she was able to speak.

            Tiger Lily was not the only one who learned. She taught Peter how to catch arrows with her hand before the tip could penetrate in to his heart. He huddled beside her as his careful green orbs watched her blend in to the jungle when she hunted, a spear in hand with her other enclosed around the handle of her hatchet at her hip. He watched her paint the walls inside tree house on those hot nights, and she sat at his feet and listened to him blow in to his pipe. At night, a small group of boys would flood the island and dance until the sun rose.

            It was Tiger Lily who found the boy with the scar ten years after she escaped the webbed hands of the mermaids. Peter ran after her, and the screaming of pain and agony rang through their ears and filled the air. The birds crowed angrily and flew away in to the depths of Dark Hallow where the Never bird remained asleep and shrouded in fog. He could barely keep up with her and his legs ached, but he kept going. The screaming was closer now, and he fell back at the sudden rush of ravens flying in his direction.

            (The mermaids screamed at the sight of the native princess rushing in to the water to pry their victim away from them. They fled in to the depths of the ocean.)

            There was a boy in the water. His shirt was nothing more than mere scraps that floated around him like small fishes in a flock. Thick blood red liquid seeped from the open wounds that the vicious claws of the mermaids bit in to, tearing his skin apart and nearly snapping his bones with their webbed hands. His legs were bound together in a tight knot of rope, his hands behind his back and a brown sack concealed his face. A rope was tightened around his neck to keep the sack in place, but two black holes revealed a dim pair of blue eyes without light.

            A figure swam towards him now. The boy’s head drooped; the loss of blood and lack of oxygen already sucked the life out of him. His eyelids closed, and he did not feel the ropes around his neck fall in to the clutches of the bloodthirsty mermaids hiding down below. A pair of hands gripped his arms and hauled him up, and he faintly recalled the voice of a boy and girl telling him to wake up.

            Peter hastily cut the ropes with his dagger as Tiger Lily pressed her palms in to the boy’s open chest and pushed down, breathing air in to his water-filled lungs. The boy was pale, and his body was covered in scars, cuts, and wounds that seeped blood that seemed to never end. The metallic rust of blood stung his nostrils and stained his white hands. The boy king gagged at the smell; tears pricked his eyes at the sight.

            Blood. There was so much blood.

            _“Oh God,”_ Peter whispered.

            His hands shook as he removed the ropes that once bound his wrists and ankles together. The rocks beneath them turned in to a darker shade of red, and Peter feared that the boy would not live. He closed his eyes and held his breath as he finally untangled a rope caught at the boy’s ankle.

            The boy’s body jerked violently and he tossed his head to the side, coughing the salty water out of his lungs.  

            Peter sat on his knees and removed his cape that sat on his shoulders to patch up his seeping wounds. Tiger Lily finally let out a breath that she held in, her hands cupping the boy’s face, her brown eyes flooded with relief.

            _“Y-you saved me?”_ The boy croaked, his voice hoarse.

            _“What’s your name?”_ asked Tiger Lily.

            His blue eyes connected with brown and green. _“F-Felix. My name is Felix.”_

 

           

            The first thing Felix remembered about Tiger Lily and Peter Pan was that they looked at him when they spoke.

            He followed the two of their footsteps in the jungle. Felix was a tall, lanky boy who resembled a walking skeleton. The hallow of his face shadowed his defined cheek bones and the small wave of his blonde hair curled slightly above his curious eyes. The boy was quiet and rarely spoke, much like Tiger Lily when Peter found her years ago running in the night. His eyes were heavy and dark circles kissed the skin beneath his irises, his back scarred from multiple punishments he received from his master.

            A scar hauntingly marked his face from the tip of his right eye to the corner of his lips. A brown sack was always placed over his head to hide his ugly face from the people who had come to the circus to see the phantom of a former blacksmith’s slave. Felix could not sleep at night; he thrashed and trembled violently beneath the sheets on the wooden floor of the tree house. Whimpers escaped his mouth and his bones shook with great vibrations, it was a miracle that he had not snapped in two.

            (His first morning, he was surprised to see Tiger Lily sleeping soundly beside him. Blue eyes fell upon the dream catcher that hung above his head. Since then, he never had a nightmare of the circus’ ring leader whipping him in public for the people’s entertainment.)

            At night, the three of them slept side by side in the tree house. There was never a pattern in how they slept. There were nights where Peter slept between Tiger Lily and Felix, and sometimes, Tiger Lily slept between the two boys with her feathers tickling their noses in their sleep. He woke with Peter’s head on his shoulder and Tiger Lily’s hand wrapped around his wrist. This was something Felix was stunned speechless; the ring leader never allowed anyone five feet near him except himself. For as long as he remembered, people jeered at the scar that marked his youthful face before laughing when the rope choked him.

            (Peter Pan and Tiger Lily were the only ones who never stared at the scar; it was as if it never existed. They were the only ones who looked at him in the eyes. Peter Pan and Tiger Lily were the ones who saved him.)

            Felix was a handsome boy; tall, fair, and quiet. The children once picked at him when the bag was over his head behind the bars and threw rocks and fruit in between the metal poles. He huddled in the corner of his cage and bit his tongue, for one day, he would escape. He often dreamt about an island where he roamed free in the sunlight; he swore he would find that place. Then, he would be free.

            Peter asked Felix how he came to Neverland. Felix’s eyes dropped to the flickering fire that kissed the sky that began to turn dark. His voice shook and his hands trembled when he remembered the ring leader dragging him out of his cage by the rope around his neck to keep the bag in place. He felt his hot breath on his skin when he angrily tore his shirt in two and threw him at the ground.

            The crack of the whip silenced his cries of pain. The ring leader was drunk, and some of the circus members stood at the side and laughed. Some sat and threw their empty beer bottles at his limp body on the dirty ground. He screamed when the ring leader bound his wrists and ankles together with a rope. One of the circus members tied the bag around his head and tossed him in to the river beside the circus.

            The mermaids attacked, but they fled when the raven girl and the boy king pulled him out.

            Felix remembered the first time he ever saw the sun rise. Back at the circus, he was lost in dream land. He lay limp and bare against the cold metal and scratchy straw of his cage. The sun was a taunting reminder that a new day was beginning; another day of the people throwing sticks and stones at his bony body. But in Neverland, the sun was different. The sun never ridiculed him; the sun loved him.

            The blue eyed boy on a log behind Tiger Lily and Peter. They were sitting on both sides of him with their back pressed against the log in silence, mildly chewing on some fruit that they found during the night. Every so often, either he or Peter would gently tug on her braid to catch her attention when they spoke. His eyes scanned the vast ocean beyond the Neverlandian shores and the stars that reflected their light on the waters. In the distance, the Never bird chirped and signaled the dawn of the new day.

            His breath was taken away at such beauty; never in his life had he seen anything so magnificent. The sun sleepily rose from its slumber beneath the ocean. Hues of blues, greens, purples, and pinks etched against the sky that was once dark, now turned bright. White clouds turned in to a soft shade of pink, like the petals of a blossoming peony, and the moon still remained low in the sky. Once white, it now blended in to the blue paint that evaded the black canvas.

            (Peter Pan eyed the boy with mild curiosity; he did not pity Felix. He understood him. He understood the pain and ridicule he went through his entire life.)

            Peter was the first one to speak. He offered a peach he sliced with his dagger to Tiger Lily and Felix with a lazy grin on his lips. _“Here’s to two years of the three of us,”_ he said.

            Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Tiger Lily smile a rare smile.

            Something inside of Felix’s broken heart soared and was patched together by the boy and the girl at his feet. A smile tickled his lips and he grinned at Peter.

            (He swore in that moment that he would protect them. They were the reason why he was still alive.)

            He watched quietly when the boys arrived at night. A fire glowed in the center of the woods; a few boys sat around the perimeter and banged on the drums. Peter stood beside the light and walked around the dancing boys covered in paint and feathers, howling in to the night. He blew in to his pipe, producing the most beautiful music that they had ever heard. It was like the wind; low and quiet, but enough to ring through the air and send chills down your spine.

            Tiger Lily sat beside the boy with the scar with a little faerie sitting on her shoulder. Felix nearly fell back from his seat on the log when a burst of light flew across his eyes.

            _“That’s Tinker Bell,”_ Tiger Lily tsked the faerie for her sudden curiosity. His blue irises watched the pixie flutter from his face to the girl’s lap. _“She does that a lot.”_

 _“Tinker Bell?”_ repeated Felix.

            Tinker Bell looked up at the boy and gave a small curtsey with her green leaved dress, a smile on her lips. A small grin itched its way on to his lips when he returned the gesture with a bow.

            The native princess watched the faerie sprinkle some dust on to his shoulder before flying to sit on Peter’s shoulder. A boy approached them now, a boy that Felix did not recognize. His skin was the same olive shade of Tiger Lily’s, his hair just as dark, but a bright red streak was evident in his hair above his eyes. A cheeky grin settled on his lips as he stood before the boy and the girl sitting on the log, his hand outstretched.

            _“Well, Tiger Lily, may I have this dance?”_

            Tiger Lily snorted in reply. The boy frowned and his eyes fell upon the boy sitting beside her. _“Who are you?”_

            Felix swallowed hard, still not used to people looking at him in the eyes instead of his scar. _“Felix. Who are you?”_

 _“The name’s Rufio.”_ Rufio said proudly with a puff of his chest and his chin raised.

            The girl beside him rolled her eyes and stood. To Felix’s surprise, she tightly grasped his calloused hands in her rough ones and pulled him up to stand.

            _“W-what are you doing?”_ Felix asked, bewildered as she dragged him near the fire.

            Peter caught his two friends walking towards him and slowly lowered his pipe with a raised eyebrow. _“What is it, Tigs?”_

            A cunning grin curled on to the girl’s lips, something that none of the boys had ever seen on her before. _“I think we should show Felix what it’s like to be a Lost One.”_

            The pied piper smiled with an unreadable twinkle in his green irises. _“Come on boys!”_ He smirked darkly. _“Let’s play.”_

 

 

***

 

            It was night when the Lost Ones heard a crack in the forest.

            Peter found a crowd of orphans that were from the same village he once was from. Of course, years had passed and Peter knew that in reality, he was years and years older than them. They were youthful and full of life; they were eager to escape the dreaded orphanage that was ran by a careless woman who gave no thought about the boys who lodged in her building.

            (His stomach turned at the thought of the village. His heart turned dark and bitter as he remembered the children throwing rocks and dirt at his face. He grinded his teeth together and clenched his hands in to tight fists as he recalled the dirty hands of the older boys around his neck and pushing him in to the bottom of the river.

            He swore he would get back at them one day. He swore that they would regret it.)

            The pied piper sat in his red robes beside the fire as the Lost Boys danced around him. It’s been months since the boys first arrived in their dreams. There was Curly, a small boy thin with short wavy blonde hair, and there was Slightly. He was nearly as tall as Peter, but far more arrogant and cocky than the others with his hands at his hips, hair dark and eyes as bright as the sky. There were the Twins; everyone referred to them as the Twins, for they were really one person in two bodies. There was Tootles, one of the older boys with sandy hair and hazel eyes who kept to himself; there was Nibs, a particular boy with the messiest brown hair who stuck close with Rufio, Felix, and Tinker Bell; he joined them in ticking off Tiger Lily.

            And there was Rufio, the boy with the red streak in his dark locks and a lopsided grin that was reflected in his warm hazel eyes. He annoyed Tiger Lily for his arrogance (not as arrogant as Slightly), but most of all, he took pride in setting Peter Pan to the brink of insanity.

            (He and Tiger Lily were the ones who let him fall in to one of Tiger Lily’s hunting nets in the jungle. They left him hanging in her net for a night.)

            Peter Pan loved to play his pipe. The Lost Boys crowed in to the night with red paint on their cheeks and feathers in their hair. Felix and Rufio banged on the drums around the fire as the Lost Boys danced inside the circle with Tiger Lily leading them behind her. The sun was gone, and the moon replaced the sun with its black cape that stained the blue sky black. Smoke filled the air and created grey clouds that hovered above their heads, like little storms that threatened to burst in to rain.

            It was Felix who grabbed his club a moment before the crack thundered in Neverland.

            The boys stopped and stared. Peter stood from his spot and produced his dagger from his belt. Tiger Lily ran towards the cliff with the boys at her heels. On the horizon, they spotted a mass of white sails and a red flag. The native warrior princess paled and trembled at the sight; Rufio grasped her arm gently and pulled her protectively behind him, his eyes dark and his lips in a thin line. Felix grinded his teeth together and Tinker Bell sat on his shoulder, quivering in fear. Peter Pan nearly snapped the handle of his dagger in his hands.

            Pirates.

            Rufio and Nibs were the first ones to notice Tiger Lily’s disappearance. Peter stayed behind as the boys one by one set out to search for the running native girl, and a certain pixie fluttered on his shoulder. There was a guarded look in his eyes, his jaw tight and his expression grim. It was as if a shadow passed over his face and sucked the light out of him. Tinker Bell crossed her legs and watched them dangle over his shoulder as she leaned against the side of his neck.

            (Neverland shifted beneath them. The vines grew and the thorns of the deadliest plants began to drip with poison.)

            _“It appears that we have a guest,”_ Peter whispered. He eyed the pirate ship sailing on the horizon. By the moment the sun would rise and the Lost Boys would wake, the pirates would be at the shore.

            The little faerie looked up at the boy with curiosity. He tilted his head to observe her, a smug grin on his lips. Something about his smirk unsettled her; she saw Neverland wilt behind him.

            _“Don’t worry Tink,”_ Peter averted his gaze from the ship and walked in to the forest. The leaves and branches parted their ways to create a path for him to follow. _“Peter Pan never fails.”_

            Tinker Bell’s wings shook and a chill descended down her spine. When she flew to the shores the following morning, the pirates were already docked at Skull Rock. Peter, Felix, and Tiger Lily were nowhere in sight.

            The blonde pixie flew wildly through the jungle, her heart filled with fear as she searched for the Neverlandians. Her eye frantically scanned the low hanging branches and leaves of the trees that casted its shadow on the soil; she spent the entire morning searching for the two boys and the girl. Bright yellow dust fluttered behind her and left a trail of light for anyone to follow her tracks, something that faeries learned very young to never do. The beasts could find them and rip their wings to shreds.

            Tinker Bell did not care. She searched and searched.

            They were at the base of Skull Rock. Tinker Bell settled herself on a branch and hid behind a leaf. Peter Pan and Felix stood before the pirates. Felix’s club threateningly rested on his shoulder; there were spikes on the wood. The boy king was beside him with his dagger poised and pointed at the throat of a man with hair as black as night and eyes as vivid as the clear sky. Tiger Lily was hidden behind the boys’ back, her hatchet in her hands, but they trembled at her sides.

            She understood; the man with identical hair had an unreadable glint in his orbs that unsettled her. Through the wind, she faintly heard the venom in Peter’s voice.

            _“Stay the hell away from us, pirate.”_

            She stretched her wings and quickly flew to Felix when they turned to leave. The pirate departed to the interior of Skull Rock, and Peter rowed the oars in the boat they sailed. Tinker Bell settled herself comfortably in his hood beside his neck and shuddered, clinging to the cloth beneath her trembling fingers.

            _“What’s the matter Tink?”_ Felix asked. Tinker Bell hesitantly stepped out of his hood and on to his open palm with a sullen look on her face. She stretched her hand and touched his wrist.

            He saw what she saw. The boy with the scar held her fragile body in his hands and kissed her head.

 

 

           ***

 

The captain of the pirates was someone Peter Pan knew from his past. He was once an honorable man; a lieutenant in the king’s navy who wore the blue and white uniform proudly with his chin held high. He sailed with his captain – his brother – on the seven seas as the king’s most trusted leaders of the navy. It was when their kingdom was at war, the king sent for the lieutenant and his older brother to fetch a plant that was said to heal all illnesses; Dream shade.

            It was years before Tiger Lily set foot in Neverland when Peter first met the dashing lieutenant and honorable captain. Peter warned them of the plant; it was the deadliest plant on the island. Its thorns dripped poison that instantly clogged the blood in their veins at the first touch. His green irises watched the two adults with disdained when the captain brushed off his warning and ventured off in to the hot jungle of Neverland.

            The lieutenant was desperate for his aid when his brother dared to prove him wrong about the plant. His brother sat dying in his arms when Peter came with an apathetic look in his eyes. The lieutenant begged for him to help; he did. Peter stepped to the side and revealed a waterfall, the same waterfall he found when he first came to Neverland.

            _“Careful, Jones,”_ Peter whispered as he watched the man with the black hair fill the canteen with water. _“The devil always comes back to collect.”_

            Peter disappeared before the water healed the poison that ran through the captain’s veins.

            (He only grinned with bloodlust when he heard the lieutenant cry out when the poison reached his heart the moment they left Neverland.)

            Peter lay on his hammock in his Thinking Tree when it happened. It was near twilight; Tinker Bell was at home in Pixie Hallow. Felix was out to gather fire wood with Tiger Lily, and the pied piper stayed at the site where the Lost Boys would visit in their dreams once more. It was only an hour when Neverland quivered in his bones. The golden haired boy sat up in the hammock with a hand to his chest that suddenly grew tight. He swallowed hard, his throat dry and rough when he tried to breathe through his mouth. Something foreign ran through his veins.

            ( _“I am not afraid,”_ Peter whispered to himself as he gripped his head in his hands, fisting his hair. There was a desperate fervor in his voice as it shook when he spoke. _“I am_ not _afraid.”)_

            Black feathers flooded his vision. There was an agonizing cry of a crow, and it landed at his feet with its neck snapped in two.

            Fear settled in his veins. Peter Pan dropped his pipe and ran. The pipe was left forgotten on the soil.

 

***

 

            The Lost Boys gathered at the shore with flowers in their hands. The faeries were the ones who placed the floating candles on the water and led the light of their dust towards the moon. Tinker Bell sat on Felix’s shoulder, her eyes as red as the darkest rays of the sun. Thick grey circles rested underneath Felix’s eyes; Peter’s irises were swollen. Nibs bit his lip that trembled beneath his teeth. Rufio stood silent on the rock with her bow and arrow strapped across his back. For once, Slightly said nothing. The Twins sat on their knees on the rocks and clasped their hands in prayer. Tootles and Curly were the ones who dared to place the flower on the drifting water.

            (Rufio was the last after Felix and Peter.)

            There was blood in the cave at Skull Rock. Felix was ruthlessly attacked by the lieutenants of the dreaded Irish captain and left hanging by his ankle upside down unconscious when Peter found him. Peter poured his water over the taller boy’s face to wake him up. The two boys ran through the forest and followed the tracks of the pirates they left behind. It was too easy for them to follow. By the time they reached Skull Rock, it was too late. Only black feathers and her broken hatchet floated to the surface.

            Tiger Lily was not drowned by mermaids. The mermaids were afraid of her the moment she sliced their sister’s side with her hatchet when she first came to Neverland. They were the ones who believed she was cursed, for she was raised by the deadly ravens. A certain pair of eyes watched her wherever she went. Whether Tiger Lily knew, no one knows, but she remained silent. Dark circles kissed her eyelids as the days wore on. She grew quiet and rarely spoke to Peter, Felix, and Tinker Bell. She did not throw a snarky remark at Rufio and Nibs when they tugged at her braid to capture her attention.

            (Rufio drowned in self-loathing. He knew that the pirates that came were the ones who killed her tribe, but he stayed silent. He was the first one to weep.)

            Jones hunted the native warrior princess. She ran through the woods and became one with the shadows, but his eyes were everywhere. Neverland saw Tiger Lily in her final moments and tried to pull her back in to the safety of its arms when she fled the island as quick as a raven. For the first time since she came to the island, Tiger Lily was afraid. Her brave exterior crumbled in to a frightened little girl with Death’s fingers wrapped around her throat.

            She tried to climb her way out of the cave of Skull Rock. The rocks were slick from the tide that began to rise. Ravens crowed loudly and picked at the pirate's flesh as he hunted her, but each one was shot by the bullet of his gun. Behind her, the voice of the Irish captain echoed off the walls. Tears pricked her eyes as she reached for a rock high above her head. Her hands were too slippery and the rocks were damp. Her hand slipped and she fell. She did not close her eyes when her head crashed against the rocks down below.

            (Felix kept the feather tassel in his hair. Rufio was the one who hunted with her bow and arrow, and it was Peter who wore the cuff link that once kissed her wrist.)

            Something inside of Peter broke that night. He grew dim and quiet; his mood was foul, and his forest green irises turned a shade darker. There was blood in his teeth whenever he grinned, and the Lost Boys fell under his command. Tinker Bell watched with sad eyes when she heard his thoughts when she slept on his shoulder at night.

            The Peter Pan the Lost Boys once knew was gone. The Pan killed him.

 

 

 

            The Pan vaguely remembers when he first left Neverland after he ran away that one winter night. He did not think he would find himself back in the forest of his old home; he passes by the stream where the older boys once shoved him in and the corner of the street where the girls threw rocks. He does not know how long it has been since he left, but he did not care.

            No one remembers him. The Pan still hears his name whispered amongst the hushed voices of the adults. Whether they were talking about him or the late grandfather he was named after, he did not know. There is little known of what came to be about his brother. It is his shadow that tells him that his father abandoned him after their first encounter years ago.

            (The Pan’s shadow was stripped away from him after the death of Tiger Lily in Neverland. His blood boiled when he heard the captain laugh and his heart was outraged to see a portrait of his mother in his bed. His anger and hatred only grew when the captain burned Tinker Bell’s wings with iron on a blue moon, a night every three seasons where faeries can be human for three days.

The Pan cut off the pirate’s hand and fed it to the crocodile.)

He plays the pipe in the center of the woods. The boys who come to dance to the music of his pipe are the ones who come with him to Neverland, but not all of them can stay. It was a year later when the Pan left Neverland to find the original Lost Boys who first came to the island in their dreams so they could stay. Not all the boys can stay, and no girl could ever step foot on the island.

(Girls lead to heartbreak. The girls he sees remind him too much of the warrior princess and faerie who were tainted by the pirate.)

His green apathetic irises watch the man he once called a father walk away with his arm around his brother’s shoulders. The Pan turns his back and reaches in to his pocket; a straw doll sits in his hands. His eyes grow dim at the memory of his father giving him the doll when he was only a little boy.

The Pan tosses the straw doll in to the fire. The doll combusts in to flames and turns in to ashes.

 

* * *

 

 

The Pan rests on his back in his hammock months later. His shadow is always separated from him; roaming the streets of a place he once called a home before Neverland. The whole island has changed ever since the death of the warrior princess. The shadows of the trees grew darker, the flowers wilted, and the mermaids never swam to the surface. The ravens that once led the girl to the island were in Skull Rock, picking apart the flesh of the dead pirates the Lost Boys massacred in the night.

A flicker of white comes across the sky. The Pan curiously pulls himself up to sit and peers at the white cloud that appears to be flying towards the island. Tinker Bell, once sitting on his shoulder, now stands and tugs at his ear to get a closer look. He extends his arm and opens his palm for her to walk; he holds his hand high as the faerie rests on her knees in his palm, her gaze set on the white cloud drifting to him.

 _“What is it, Tink?”_ asks the Pan.

Tinker Bell gestures with her hands, creating the whimsical tinkle of bells. The Pan barely deciphers the movements of her little hands and furrows his brow.

_It’s called a Wendy._

His shadow whispers to him in the corners of his mind. Tinker Bell screams when one of the Lost Boys’ arrow is shot in the cloud’s direction.

The cloud falls.

The Pan sets the faerie in his hood and runs to the cloud. Neverland moves beneath him and parts its ways for the boy king to follow. His heart races, his mind soars, and his blood hums. The golden haired boy cannot remember the last time he saw something so white and so pure land on the island, not since the days before Tiger Lily’s death.

The Lost Boys are in a circle around the fallen cloud in a clearing. Tootles stands with trembling hands, his face pale and his eyes wide with horror as he drops his bow at his feet. The Twins pull Tootles out of the way when the Pan saunters towards them. Almost instantly, the boys repel like a bird drifting away from the Pan.

A girl lays on her back. Her dress is as white and pure as snow, her hair the color of the fair rays of the sun, and her lips as soft as the flowers of a petal. Tootles’ arrow sits on her chest, but there is no blood. The Pan falls to his knees and examines the girl with wide and childish curiosity. His dirt-stained hands brushes her hair out of her face and his fingers trail to the arrow resting on her chest. He bites his lip and pulls the arrow out; beneath the tip of the arrow was a dent in a thimble tied around her neck.

The girl stirs.

 _“She lives,”_ breathes Curly. Tootles sighs in relief, but remains guarded and worried.

 _“Can she be our mother?”_ whimpers one of the Twins. Nibs smacks his arm and Rufio hushes him. The Lost Boys are forbidden to talk about mothers, especially in the presence of the Pan.

The Pan does not hear the boys bicker behind him. He nearly jumps out of his skin when the girl turns her head. His blood runs cold at the name that falls from her mouth full of kisses.

_“Baelfire.”_

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. whoa this ended up really long! this is probably the longest a chapter is ever going to be (20 pages yikes!) and it is long due to the back stories I put in place. 
> 
> 2\. growing up I always loved Tiger Lily over Wendy. I recently finished the novel Tiger Lily by Jodi Lynn Anderson (tears everywhere) and I admittedly have Tiger Lily bias. shame on you A&E for not including my favorite Peter Pan character in the show. 
> 
> 3\. updates will be slow! forgive me, school has begun and i have a bare minimum of 5 tests/quizzes/exams per week, so don't get upset if i don't update right away! junior year sucks. 
> 
> 4\. i lied. there is no scene between the Pan and Bae...yet. stay tuned everyone. 
> 
> 5\. i've always had this head cannon that Felix, Peter, and Tiger Lily are like the golden trio in Harry Potter (or if you've seen Doctor Who, I see Amy, Rory, and 11...)
> 
> 6\. Tiger Lily and Peter parallel a pairing in ouat. kudos to anyone who figures it out ;)
> 
> 7\. last and not least, this trilogy goes to April (bombxbomb on tumblr). Check out her art! She's an absolutely amazing artist and if it were not for her, I would have never started this trilogy in the first place. 
> 
> 8\. reviews are like thimbles. they make you feel fuzzy on the inside :-)


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